


A Self-Imposed Exile

by miss_grey



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cas lives in a cabin, Dean is a drifter, Domestic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, M/M, Minor Character Death, Slow Build, Slow Build Castiel/Dean Winchester, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-18
Updated: 2014-03-11
Packaged: 2018-01-13 00:13:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1205686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_grey/pseuds/miss_grey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas is a loner who lives in a cabin in the woods.  Dean is a drifter with ten bucks to his name.  They meet by chance during one of the worst storms of the year, and learn, eventually, that you don't have to be lonely to find peace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Calendula

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really excited for this piece. It will be one of my fluffier stories, with a side of angst, and a lot of introspection, on both characters' parts. I hope you enjoy and would love to hear what you think :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who are interested, I made a playlist for this story: It's soft enough to listen to while you read, or just awesome if you wanna give it a shot later: http://8tracks.com/miss_grey/a-self-imposed-exile

**Chapter 1: Calendula**

 

 

 

 

 

 

           The petals of the calendula flowers caught rays of the early morning sunlight and shone golden like miniature suns amid the various shades of green that colored the garden.  The air was still cool, but it would warm quickly, and would dry the remaining drops of dew from the night before.  A light breeze whispered through the trees, kissing the leaves, and bringing with it the promise of a beautiful day.  A single bird had been twittering from its invisible perch amid the limbs of one of the giant oak trees, but now others joined it, their song bringing in the sunrise.

            Castiel crouched, his hands and knees pressed to the dark, damp earth—moisture was already beginning to soak into the knees of his blue jeans, but he didn’t mind it.  He dug his fingers lightly into the soil of the garden beds—it was rich, and freshly turned.  Castiel could feel the heavy grit of it wedging its way under his nails, but he didn’t mind that, either.  It made him feel like he was a part of the earth, and it calmed him.  It wasn’t something to be ashamed of, to have a bit of dirt on his hands.  Not if it was earned honestly.

            Castiel figured tending a garden was about as honest as one could get.

 

 

            He’d been up since before dawn, just to watch the sun rise.  It was one of his favorite things to do—to stretch his arms over his head, groaning, until his back cracked, and then to crawl out of bed in the dim light that signaled the transition from night to day, when the world was still and quiet, and the air held a promise.  He loved the feel of the slightly cool floorboards on his bare feet as he shuffled over them, the sensation broken only by the mismatched throw rugs scattered around his home. 

            Castiel liked to boil his coffee, then, when the sky was still slightly dark.  He drank it plain and black, rich and nourishing like the earth in the forest.  His favorite mug was made of cobalt-blue painted ceramic, and had a chip in the handle—Castiel didn’t know what had caused the chip—it had been that way when Castiel had bought it at a yard sale for 50 cents years ago.  The chip didn’t bother Castiel.  He’d learned where it was and knew now how to maneuver his fingers around it.  It wasn’t broken.  Not really.

 

            One of the best things about the morning was perching on his porch steps, sipping his piping-hot coffee, his hands warmed by the ceramic mug, and waiting for the sun to rise.  The colors were never quite the same—a mix of blues, oranges, pinks, yellows, and greens—painted across the sky, chasing the darkness away for another day. 

 

            After coffee, Castiel made his rounds of the cabin and surrounding lands—sometimes he followed some of his favorite paths, to places he knew well, and indulged in simple relaxation before it was time to return to care for the many things that needed tending, not least of all the garden.  Though, Castiel knew that the garden would be fine without him—should he ever decide to leave here.  The sun would shine and the rain would come, and the plants that he looked after so diligently would dig their roots deep into the earth and thrive on their own, as nature intended.  They would grow wild, like the trees and the plants of the forest, all of which might someday cover the cabin and all of Castiel’s earthly belongings.  Would reclaim them. 

            Perhaps that thought might have frightened some people, but Castiel took comfort in it.  It reminded him that no matter what he did or did not do in his life, none of his decisions were important enough to impact the vastness of nature, in all of its glory.  The earth would continue long after Castiel was gone.

            It made him happy.

 

* * *

 

 

            Castiel had sold his car two years ago—right after he’d left his job at the insurance agency.  It had been the last in a long line of personal belongings that Castiel had sold off or given away—until he was left with only a couple boxes from his former life. 

            The cabin, which he’d bought from a kind, but sharp elderly woman named Missouri Mosely, had come with minimal furnishings.  It was a bit rough around the edges, she’d warned him, and it could do with some fixing, but that was just what Castiel was looking for. 

            It had been difficult, in the beginning—teaching himself how to take care of things that he’d never had to worry about before.  He learned how to tighten the pipes under the kitchen sink to fix a drip, he’d learned that during the winter, the cabin grew very cold without a constant fire burning—and it was up to him to gather enough wood to make sure that was possible.  During the rainy season, he learned that shingles weren’t optional, and when the wind blew old ones off the roof, new ones had to be put up, or else the cabin would sprout leaks that would be even more difficult to fix.

            Castiel hadn’t planted anything since he was a child and his mother helped him to build an herb garden in the window box of their suburban home.  He learned, though.  He’d realized, only after he’d purchased several different types of seeds, that he had no idea how they needed to be planted.  He wasn’t completely ignorant, after all—he knew that different plants required different kinds of soil, different levels of sunshine, and depth, and even varied by what point of the year in which they were planted.  The farmer’s almanac he bought was helpful, but the most help he got was through listening to the folks of Arrow Wood discuss their own gardens, fields, and orchards. 

            It was a five mile walk for Castiel to get from his cabin in the woods to the little town, but it was worth it.

 

 

            Now, two years into Castiel’s life in the cabin, he’d learned to appreciate a lot of things he’d never given much thought to before.  Castiel didn’t have all of the amenities he’d had before, but he found things he liked even better. 

            When he’d worked for Adler Insurance Agency, Castiel had worn a suit and tie every single day to work, with slightly-scuffed dress shoes, though he made a constant effort to polish them.  Now, Castiel donned thin, loose t-shirts, and plaid over shirts, and thick sweaters in the winter time.  He’d traded black slacks for thick, worn-in jeans, stained with mud and grease, and grass—from use.  He didn’t mind the thick socks and the boots, either, though when the weather was warm enough, Castiel preferred to go barefoot. 

            He didn’t bother shaving every single day anymore, instead preferring to wear a dark scruff on his jaw.  He’d never been able to tame his unruly hair, and now it didn’t matter.  The cabin, the trees, the birds—they didn’t care what he looked like, and it was freeing.  There was no one to please anymore, but himself.  And Castiel was happy.

            Probably the most important lesson he learned, though, was how to be grateful.

 

 

            Castiel prayed every single day, but not like he used to. 

            He’d grown up in a religious family that attended church every Sunday, and for other important days of the year.  His father had loved to quote the Bible to him, especially during his teenage years, when his parents had called him difficult.  They’d said grace before every meal, sometimes giving elaborate speeches.  Castiel thinks now, that perhaps they liked to hear themselves talk more than they were concerned with being thankful for anything.  But… that didn’t matter anymore.  He’d left that life behind, what was left of it, anyway.  And when he had, he’d sworn to leave behind all of the negativity he’d accumulated over his 26 years of life as well.

            Now, Castiel prayed in smiles and sighs.  He used his whole body to give thanks.  Every morning when he watched the sun rise, and later when he watched it set, he’d close his eyes, just briefly, and thank God for allowing him to bear witness to the beauty.  The first sip of coffee every morning was a heavenly experience.  The feel of fresh-turned earth between his bare toes was a revelation. 

            Castiel had grown comfortable with solitude.  He sought out company in Arrow Wood only rarely, preferring the calm of his own little corner of the woods, and the relaxation that came from not having to contend with other people’s thoughts and emotions constantly.  Castiel liked it better this way, and after two years, he’d grown so used to it that he wondered at his life before coming here.

            Castiel was thankful for a space of his own, and time to himself—it made his life easier, if not more exciting.  Occasional conversation and smiles in town when Castiel went to buy necessities was enough to get him by.  He wasn’t looking to bring more people into his life.  He was content, finally.  He wasn’t looking to complicate things.

            Which is why he probably should have known that everything was about to change.


	2. Ozone

[ ](http://s1362.photobucket.com/user/muliasz/media/ozone_zpsd4402fd0.jpg.html)

            

 

 

 

           For the four years of his college career, Castiel rode a bike.  He rode it everywhere.  It was a basic, navy blue Schwinn; it wasn’t one of those fancy mountain bikes with various gears and settings.  It had one mode, and that was: pedal hard, go far.  Castiel loved it, though.  He bought it with money that he’d saved from his part-time high school job of bagging groceries at the local grocery store.  It had been, perhaps, the first thing he’d owned that he loved because of the work he put into it.  Castiel didn’t need flashy, but he didn’t spare any expense, either.  Gabriel used to give him hell for the cheery bell he attached to the handle and the basket that Castiel mounted to the back, so that he could carry his things.

            Castiel no longer had the bike.  It had torn at his heart to part with it, silly as that may seem, but after the accident… well, he just couldn’t bring himself to ride it anymore, either.

            Now Castiel walked everywhere, and he owned a very little cart that he could load up and pull behind him, when he made the five mile trek into town for supplies.  Castiel was aware that he probably looked a little bit ridiculous pulling it behind him down the wooded trails and then the narrow road into town, but he didn’t much care.  It was simple and efficient.  And the walking gave him good exercise and the opportunity to let his mind wander.

 

 

 

 

            Castiel probably only needed to make the trip into town once every few weeks, but he usually went more often than that, just so that he could see people again, and feel like he was still a part of that world, too.  There were some in the town who cared for him, he supposed, people who worried if he didn’t come around for a while.  Sometimes, Castiel walked the distance just to spare them the worry. 

            No one was outright hostile to Castiel, though he still felt disconnected—it was like the people of Arrow Wood didn’t know what to say to him, or how to reach him.  And unfortunately, Castiel wasn’t sure how to bridge that divide either.  He’d always been shy, even in college when he’d counted himself the happiest, but now he knew he was withdrawn.  He just wasn’t sure what to say to someone without sounding trite, or pouring out his love and heartache and _life_ to them.  It seemed that Castiel had reached a point where, if he were to share, it would either be all or nothing.  And he couldn’t bring himself to share all of himself with anyone, so instead, he remained polite, but said very little.

            On this particular day, Castiel didn’t feel like talking much.  He spoke with the woman behind the counter at the grocery store—Francine—but that was the highlight of his social interaction.  Truth be told, he felt a little bit off, but he couldn’t think why.

           

 

 

 

            When Castiel returned to the cabin, he made quick work of unpacking all that he’d bought—a few more packets of powdered milk, a couple bags of rice and beans, some chicken and beef, and of course, coffee.  He didn’t have very many shelves in the modest kitchen, but he kept them neat and orderly and found that he didn’t mind the relative lack of space.  It was only him, after all, and he had everything that he needed and wanted.  If, someday, he felt like he needed more shelves, he could always put some up himself.  He’d learned how to do that, since moving here.

            After everything was put away, Castiel went outside to tend to his garden, but paused on the path, head cocked toward the west.  He took a deep breath, could taste the tang of ozone on his tongue.  He wrapped his arms tightly around himself.

            “A storm’s coming.”

 

 

 

 

            The storm rolled in late in the afternoon, blotting out the sun with dark, angry gray clouds that rolled and swirled.  Thunder rode ahead, announcing the storm in rumbles at first, and then as it drew closer, bone-jarring claps that shook the cabin. 

            Castiel retreated inside, and watched from the window when the first drops began to fall—random, fat drops that turned into a torrent within moments.  Castiel tugged his blue plaid shirt closer and hugged himself.  Outside, lightning shattered the sky.

 

 

 

            Castiel would be lying to himself if he said he didn’t feel fear at the violence of the storm, but he bore it with deference and respect.  It would be stupid, he thought, not to feel acutely aware of his own mortality in the face of such power.  The rain lashed at his windows, shaking the glass panes.  Through the onslaught of rain, he could see that the ground in front of the cabin was already flooding.

            Castiel lit candles, as he was wont to do when a storm came, and turned out the electric lights.  In the kitchen, a pot of beef stew bubbled thickly on the stove, and a loaf of fresh bread was baking in the oven.  The scent of the food permeated the cabin, and made it feel warm.  Castiel’s mouth watered, and his stomach grumbled, echoing the thunder outside.

            The wind howled, and Castiel felt a chill go down his spine.  He prayed that the mass of swirling dark clouds wouldn’t turn into something more sinister—he prayed that everyone would make it through the night.

            Castiel dished himself up a bowl of hot stew, finally, and was just settling himself at his little table when he heard it.  It sounded like a shout—like someone was crying out in pain.  Castiel sat forward, straining his ears—sometimes the wind could play tricks.  But no, he heard it again.  It was a distinct cry for help.  Castiel felt the blood drain from his face.  His closest neighbor lived five miles away, and he hoped that the residents of Arrow Wood were smart enough to stay inside during this weather, but if not a neighbor, who could it be?  Castiel’s mind filled with fanciful stories—it was a spirit, come to tug on his sense of compassion and lure him to his death in the rain and the mud.  Or it was a deranged criminal—who else would be out in this?

            A sharp cry sounded once more, and then a groan.  Castiel’s door rattled on its hinges from the force of the desperate pounding of someone suddenly laying fists to the wood.  The handle jiggled and Castiel leapt away from the table, knocking his chair over in the process.  His heart was in his throat when he looked around for a weapon and settled on the fire poker.

            He pulled the curtain back and peeked out of the window, but he couldn’t see a thing in the chaos of the storm.  Castiel withdrew, let the curtain drop.  He licked his lips and steeled himself. 

            Fingers wrapped firmly around the iron poker, Castiel twisted the lock, and opened the door.


	3. Lights

                                                              [](http://s1362.photobucket.com/user/muliasz/media/Lights_zps4acf42fb.jpg.html)

 

 

 

 

            A tumult of rain and a flood of water poured in with the man who stumbled through the threshold when the door was yanked open.  Castiel was forced to leap back in order to avoid being crushed by the man, who collapsed to his knees then sprawled on the floor, moaning again.

            The man was a mess.  His clothes were soaked through and stuck to his body.  He wore brown boots, caked in mud—the mud carried up the pant legs of his ratty jeans, flecks of it travelling as high as his knees.  He wore a heavy-looking backpack; it appeared almost to be squashing him now, as he lay there, gasping and moaning.  Castiel stood back, poker firmly in hand, as his eyes flickered quickly, critically, over this mysterious man.  Castiel could see that he was wearing a wet, long-sleeved plaid shirt, but the man was still shivering violently underneath it. 

            Castiel cleared his throat.  “Who are you?”

            The man raised his head from the wooden floor and Castiel’s first impression was of bright green eyes, intense for their conveyance of pain, and perhaps fear and anger, as well.  His face was pale under a smattering of freckles that covered his nose and cheeks, and though his hair was matted to his head from the storm, he was beautiful.

            The man gritted his teeth and pushed himself to a sitting position, shrugging his bag off of his shoulders as he went so that it thumped wetly beside him.  His voice was rough, hoarse perhaps from the yelling, when he said “My, uh… I’m Dean.”  He gazed up at Castiel, who still held the poker between them, eyes wary, but not necessarily threatening.

            Castiel gave a short nod.  “My name is Castiel, and this is my home.”  His hand tightened around the metal, slippery now from his nervous perspiration.  “What were you doing out in the storm?”

            Dean grimaced.  “I was just passing through and I got caught out in it.  Tried to take cover in the trees, figuring it’d blow over fast, but that didn’t happen.  I saw the lights in your windows.”

            Castiel shifted on his feet.  “I heard you cry out.”

            Dean turned his eyes away and shifted uneasily for a moment.  “I twisted my ankle.”

            Castiel lowered the poker, the fear of the strange man and the storm morphing into an odd, sudden anxiety for his welfare.  “You’re injured.” 

            Dean’s eyes shot back to his, suddenly hard with distrust.  “I’m fine.”

            Castiel felt the knots in his stomach untangle and he laid the poker aside.  He held out a hand to Dean.  “Here.  Let me help.”

            Dean struggled to push himself to his feet on his own, but he was shivering too badly.  He flicked nervous eyes to Castiel before finally reaching out.  His hand was cold and clammy in Castiel’s, but despite the tremor, Dean’s grip was strong, and Castiel heaved him to his feet easily.  Suddenly, the muddy, drenched stranger was on his feet again, and too close.  He was taller than Castiel by a couple of inches, and his closeness reminded Castiel of the reality of the situation once more.  A stranger was in his home.  Castiel was alone out here.  No way to call for help, should he need it.  The rational part of Castiel’s brain told him that he shouldn’t allow Dean to remain in the cabin, that it was dangerous, and uncomfortable, and _so many things_ could happen.  But the other part of his brain took a look at the obviously pained, desperate-looking man, and offered him the smallest of smiles.  Castiel pulled a chair away from the table.  “Here.  Sit.”

            Dean’s look was a cross between wariness and gratefulness, as he sank onto the chair with a groan.  “Are you gonna throw me out?”  He asked, voice gruff, eyes averted once more.

            Castiel righted his own chair and pulled it close to Dean’s.  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”  He murmured, tilting his head to catch Dean’s gaze.  “For now, let’s take a look at that ankle.”  Dean stiffened and clenched his fists when Castiel reached for his leg, so Castiel paused, hands in the air, and he met Dean’s suspicious eyes once more.  “I’m not going to hurt you.”  He assured.  Dean stared at him for a long moment, assessing, before he gave a short nod and helped Castiel to raise his leg and pull the dirty boot from his foot.  Dean’s socks had holes in the toes.  Castiel swallowed his distaste and pulled the fabric from his foot, as Dean rolled his pants up to his calf.  Castiel frowned at what was revealed: Dean’s ankle was already twice the normal size, and the flesh was purpling around the joint.  Castiel jerked his eyes back to Dean’s, to find the other man staring, wide-eyed, at his injury.  “How long were you walking on this?”

            Dean shrugged.  “A while, I guess.”  Castiel frowned at him and Dean crossed his arms defensively.  “I couldn’t exactly just stop out there, could I?”

            “No, I suppose not.”  Castiel stood and replaced Dean’s foot on the vacated chair.  “You’re lucky you found the cabin.”  He thought for a moment, then nodded decisively.  “Keep your foot elevated.  I’ll return shortly with ice.”

            In the kitchen, Castiel made quick work of digging through his little freezer and preparing a bag of ice, the whole while trying to control the whirling thoughts of the strange man in the cabin’s main room.  Castiel struggled to shut his mind up, to silence the warring argument that he was having with himself over what to do with this man.  Finally, he focused instead on what needed to be done for the injury.

            Dean was side-eying Castiel’s neglected bowl of stew, but quickly pretended not to have noticed, when Castiel returned to the main room with a bag of ice in his hand.  He passed it over to Dean, who applied it to the swollen ankle with a hiss.  Castiel stepped back, with arms crossed, and observed the man for a moment.  He was cold and wet, and injured, and Castiel found that despite everything, the decision was easy to make, after all.  “Dean.”

            Dean met Castiel’s eyes, but Castiel could not tell what the other man was thinking.  “Yeah?”

            Castiel cleared his throat and pointed toward the door with his chin.  “You can’t go back out into that tonight.  You should see someone about that ankle tomorrow, but in the meantime, I’ll do my best to help.”

            Dean’s face went completely blank, but even so, Castiel could see the flicker of what might be hope in the backs of his eyes.  “You’re not booting me out?”

            Castiel smiled at him.  “I guess not.”

            Dean nodded and cleared his throat.  “Thanks.  I uh… I appreciate that.”

            “It’s not a problem.  Now, if you’re going to stay, we should tend to other matters.  Your clothing is soaked.  I have some you can change into while yours dry, if you’d like.”  Dean nodded.  “And I was just about to have my dinner when you arrived.  Would you like some?” 

            Dean licked his lips, unconsciously, and flicked his eyes back to the bowl of stew before nodding.  “Yeah, uh… I mean.  Yes.”

            Castiel crossed the room to his old, but sturdy wooden chest of drawers and pulled out a pair of loose sweat pants, a plain black t-shirt, and another flannel, which he folded and passed to Dean.  “You can change in here, or the bathroom is over there,” Castiel motioned toward a door on the other side of the kitchen wall “if you’d like.  I’ll be back with some food.”  He left the room before Dean could respond.

            Castiel took his time in the kitchen, puttering around unnecessarily in order to give Dean more time to himself.  The stew was still hot on the stove, so he ladled some into another bowl and cut off another hunk of fresh bread for his impromptu visitor. 

            When Castiel returned to the main room, he found Dean sitting at the table once more, now mostly-dried and decked in Castiel’s warm, clean clothes.  Castiel raked his eyes critically over Dean, but didn’t let them linger, as he approached and set the bowl of stew in front of Dean.  The clothes fit well enough.  Dean coughed and shifted when Castiel drew near.  “I uh… hung my clothes in the shower.  That alright?”

            Castiel nodded.  “That’s fine.  Here, eat.”

            Dean glanced warily from the bowl of food, to Castiel, and back again, before apparently making up his mind and grasping the spoon.  He moaned at the first bite.  “Holy shit,” Dean mumbled around his second spoonful.  “This is awesome.  You make this?”

            “Yes.”

            “It’s like Heaven, man.  Thanks.”

            Castiel nodded.  He wanted to ask when the last time was that Dean ate, but he didn’t want to be rude or seem like he was prying.  So he kept quiet as he ate his own dinner.  It was rather delicious, even though his own bowl had grown cold.  The stew was rich and thick, the chucks of beef just falling apart, the potatoes and carrots tender.  The bread was particularly good: flaky, crunchy crust covering a warm, soft center.  When Dean had devoured his bowl of stew and bread, Castiel asked if he’d like more, but the other man declined politely.

            After Castiel was done eating, he took the dishes to the kitchen to be washed, and then returned once more with a small tub of yellow ointment.  “I’ve got something that should help with the swelling.”  He announced, pulling his chair close to Dean’s foot once more. 

            The other man’s eyes were defensive once more, but not quite as pointedly as before, perhaps, when he asked “What is that stuff?”

            Castiel scooped some of it into his hand and lifted Dean’s foot so that he could spread it over the injured area.  Dean flinched when Castiel’s fingers smoothed over his skin, but Castiel pretended not to notice.  The ankle was warm and still grotesquely swollen, despite the ice Dean had applied throughout dinner.  “This is a calendula salve,” Castiel murmured.  The salve was thick, waxy, and smelled slightly of lemon.  “It will help with the swelling.”

            Dean’s brows knit together.  “Huh.”  He raised his eyes from his ankle to look at Castiel’s face.  “You make it?”

            “Yes.  I grow the flowers in my garden.  They have many healing properties.”

            “That’s cool, I guess.  How’d you learn that?”

            Castiel shrugged.  “Just something I picked up along the way.  No sense in ignoring something so useful when it’s easily available.”

            Dean frowned.  “Right.”

 

 

 

 

            They sat at the table together, after Dean’s ankle was wrapped in a thick ace-bandage, and observed one another while trying not to be too obvious about it.  It was a strange situation, and neither of them tried to pretend that it wasn’t.  Dean was the first to draw obvious attention to that fact.  “So… you make a habit of helping random dudes that barge into your house in the middle of the night?”

            Castiel smiled ironically.  “Believe it or not, you’re the first.”

            Dean chuckled, and the sound was oddly comforting against the sound of the storm still howling outside.  “Seriously, though… why are you helping me?”

            Castiel shrugged.  “It seemed like the thing to do.”

            “Most folks probably wouldn’t agree with you.”

            Castiel offered Dean another off-hand shrug.  “I don’t care much what ‘most folks’ think.”  Castiel cleared his throat.  “So… you said you were passing through?  Why Arrow Wood?”

            Now it was Dean’s turn to shrug.  “Seemed like as good a place as any.  I’m not usually real particular where I wander.”

            Castiel frowned.  “You’re a drifter.”

            Dean gave a short nod and met Castiel’s eyes.  “Are you regretting helping me now?”

            Castiel thought about it for a moment before he answered honestly, “No.  I’m not.”  He fidgeted with his hands for a moment before he added.  “I am tired now, though.”  He glanced around the small space of his cabin.  “I have some blankets and an extra pillow that you can use, but unfortunately that’s all I have to offer.”

            Dean waved him off.  “That’s way better than I ever thought I’d get.”

            Castiel was aware of Dean’s eyes on his back as he set to making a place for the man on his floor, piling it thick with quilts and his lone spare pillow.  Dean refused Castiel’s help and hobbled over to the make-shift bed himself.  After he was settled, Castiel blew out the candles and retreated to his own bed on the other side of the room, opting to sleep with all of his clothes on, even though it was slightly uncomfortable. 

 

 

 

 

            As he lay in the dark, listening to the peculiar sound of Dean’s rhythmic breathing joining his own, he thought to himself again that this could end badly.  If Dean wanted to, he could kill Castiel in the middle of the night and take his things.  Or do any number of other terrible things, really.  But even with those disturbing thoughts occasionally flittering in his mind, he couldn’t bring himself to believe that allowing Dean to stay was a mistake.

            Castiel was just starting to drift off, the storm having begun to settle outside, when Dean whispered “Hey Cas?”

            Half-asleep, the nickname didn’t fully register with Castiel, but he managed to mumble “Yes?”

            “Thanks.”


	4. Hanging On

                                                              [](http://s1362.photobucket.com/user/muliasz/media/rope_zps435fc44b.jpg.html)

 

 

 

 

The cabin was dark, and warm, and dry.  Still, Dean couldn’t sleep.

His life was a weird thing.  He’d come to accept that at this point.  Just this morning, he’d been kicking up dust on the road to the tiny, hole-in-the-wall town of Arrow Wood, thinking he’d get to maybe enjoy the charms of small-town life and the fresh air of the forest before he moved on to the next place.  Then that damn storm had come out of nowhere, drenching Dean and all of his earthly belongings.  He’d been cold enough that he couldn’t stop the shivers, and after he’d stumbled in a hole and twisted his ankle, he’d entertained the grim idea that he might just die out there: alone, and utterly forgotten.  But suddenly, through a lull in the pounding rain, he’d seen a light flickering amid the twisting black tree branches, and he’d followed it like a drowning man toward a light house.

Now Dean was here, and he still couldn’t quite believe it.  When Dean had looked up from the hard wooden floor of the cabin, and seen the man, Castiel…Cas, standing above him with a metal poker, Dean had figured he was in for a beating and a quick boot out the door.  After all, Cas had seemed frightened and it was obvious that he lived alone out here.  Dean wouldn’t have blamed him, really, if that’s what he chose to do.  What he hadn’t expected was care and kindness from this strange man.

He’d listened to Dean; big, bright blue eyes wide with shock and some sort of sympathy, Dean thought.  Though his hands had been rough with calluses, they were warm and gentle as they tended to Dean’s injured ankle, Cas’s long, slender fingers smoothing some sort of home-made ointment over his bruised skin to keep the swelling down.  He’d fed Dean, and allowed him to sit at his table.  The food was delicious—Dean hadn’t had anything that good in at least a couple weeks, not since that shelter in Texas.  Dean was sort of impressed that Cas had made it all himself.

Cas had given Dean some of his clothes to wear, and damn, it felt good to be wearing clean clothes again.  They were dry and warm, and soft from wear.  They smelled like the other man—fresh and clean, but with an almost-smoky, musky undertone.  For some crazy reason, it didn’t bother Dean, but he figured it should have.  He’d never been big on the getting-close thing, and it was pretty personal, even for him, to be sharing some other dude’s clothes.  But he wasn’t gonna say that he wasn’t grateful.  Because he was. 

The thing that shocked Dean the most, though, was the simple fact that Cas allowed him to stay.  Granted, Dean’s bed was a pile of blankets on the floor, but that was a hell of a lot better than the benches and bare ground he was used to.  He hadn’t been allowed into a place that _wasn’t_ a shelter in close to a year, when he was younger and looked less scruffy, less tired, less dangerous.  Dean was 28 now, but some days he looked closer to 40.  The road wore on him. 

In the dark of the room, Dean was acutely aware that Cas slept soundly not too far from him—oddly, disturbingly trusting.  At first, his quick trust of Dean in allowing him into the cabin had given Dean an uneasy feeling, and he’d wondered if he’d stumbled into a place with a psycho who was gonna chop him up or wear his skin or something.  Now, Dean wondered if Cas was just naïve.  The other man didn’t look any older than 30, but surely he was wiser than this, living on his own?  These were the thoughts that kept Dean awake.  He was suspended, sleeplessly, between nervous fear for his own wellbeing (and the obvious pain of his injury) and a strange concern for his impromptu host.  What if it hadn’t been Dean who’d come knocking?  What if it had been someone with far more sinister intentions?  Did Cas just let anyone in if they looked like they could use a meal and a dry bed?  Or was it something else about Dean that convinced Cas to let him stay?

The storm had blown over for the most part, though Dean could still hear the rumble of thunder in the distance.  His ankle hurt like a bitch right now, but hopefully in the morning it’d be alright and he could take off before he over-stayed his welcome in Cas’s home.

The place wasn’t big, and from what Dean could see in the candle light before, it wasn’t fancy either.  It was warm, and comfortable, and clean, but modest.  Even the food had been simple, though nourishing fare.  Something inside Dean whispered that this was a safe place.

Dean figured he was a fool to think so.

Hours after the candles had been blown out, Dean closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift into a dreamless sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Light was just beginning to filter in through the cabin windows, dim and blue, when Dean woke to the rich, _enticing_ scent of coffee.  Dean cracked an eye open, for a moment disoriented and having forgotten where he was.  Then he became aware of the warm, soft blankets tucked around him and he recalled the night before.  He glanced around the room, and after seeing no sign of Cas, Dean pushed himself to a sitting position, and winced when he moved his foot.  “Son of a bitch,” he mumbled, shoving the blankets aside so that he could get a better look at his ankle.  He carefully unwound the ace-bandage and grimaced when he found the joint still swollen, and colored in purple and black bruises.  “Shit.”  Dean closed his eyes.  There was no way in hell he was going to be able to walk on it like this.

Cas must have heard Dean’s cursing, because he emerged from the kitchen, eyebrows pulled tight with concern.  He carried two mugs in his hands.  “Is everything alright?”  His voice still held the gruff edge of the night before, so Dean figured maybe it wasn’t from fear. 

Dean glanced at Cas and then looked away again.  “Yeah.  I’m good.”

“How is your ankle?”

Dean couldn’t bring himself to reply, so he simply shook his head.  The next thing he knew, one of the mugs was being pressed into his hand, and then Castiel was folding his legs and sinking to the floor near to Dean.  The mug was warm, and bright orange, and it fit in Dean’s hand perfectly.  Dean peered down at its dark contents and inhaled.  God, that smelled good.  When was the last time he’d had strong, fresh-brewed coffee?  Forever ago.

Cas cleared his throat.  “I wasn’t sure how you took your coffee, so I left it black.”

Dean summoned a weak smile for the other man.  “I take it black, so this is perfect.”  Dean took a sip of the coffee and groaned.  Cas quirked an eyebrow at him and Dean shrugged.  “Sorry.  Haven’t had a decent cup of coffee in a while.”  Cas hummed like he understood, which Dean doubted, but Dean left it and took another gulp.  He watched out of the corner of his eye as Cas did the same and noticed that the other man’s mug had a chip in the handle, but Dean decided not to mention it.

After the coffee was gone, Dean sat twisting the mug in his hands, feeling suddenly awkward, until Cas asked “Can you stand?”

Dean shrugged and then glared down at his ankle so that Cas couldn’t see.  “Yeah, probably.”  Cas stood and offered a hand down to Dean, which he ignored.  Dean was able to push himself to his feet by himself, but when he put his foot down and tried to take a step, he stumbled—a sharp, jagged pain shooting along his nerves. “Damn,” Dean hissed, when Cas had to reach out and steady him.  Cas’s hands were warm, and strong, and some strange part of Dean in the back of his mind, was disappointed when Cas drew his hands away.

“You can’t walk like this.”  Cas said matter-of-factly.

Dean snorted.  “Yeah, well, I’m gonna have to.”

Cas frowned.  “I’d like to help you get to a doctor.”

Dean smiled wryly.  “Thanks, Cas, but no can do.”

“Why not?”

“I’m dirt poor, man.  Seriously.  I’ve got about ten bucks to my name, and that’s it.”

“Oh.”  Cas frowned, but didn’t avert his eyes.  “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well….”  Dean ran a hand through his hair—it felt greasy, even after the rain last night, and he knew he was in dire need of a shower.  “It’s not your problem, so no big deal, right?”

Cas frowned harder at him now, a line forming between his brows.  “I can’t, in good conscience, allow you to leave in this condition.”

“Well, hate to break it to you, man, but hospitals cost money that I don’t have.  And it ain’t your choice, anyway.”

“So what, you’re just going to leave like this?  You can barely walk.”

Dean glanced away, no longer able to meet Cas’s gaze.  “It’s not like I have a choice.  Where else am I supposed to go?”

“You could…”  Cas paused and Dean glanced up to see the other man biting his bottom lip, twisting his hands nervously.  “I mean, maybe, just until you’re able to walk again…”  Dean arched a brow.  “…you could stay here.”

Dean gaped at Cas, utterly bewildered now.  “ _Why_ would you offer me something like that?”  Dean shook his head and laughed.  “You don’t even know me.”

Cas nodded.  “I know.  It’s strange, and maybe I _shouldn’t_ help you.  But you need help, and you knocked on my door, so I will.”

Dean crossed his arms and glared.  “How do you know I’m not some deranged criminal?”  Cas quirked an eyebrow and Dean huffed, running a hand through his hair.  “I’m not, okay, but still… you don’t know that.”  Cas shrugged.  “Look, I’m not gonna be someone’s pity case.”

Cas shook his head sharply.  “No.”  He rumbled.  Dean clicked his jaw shut.  “I don’t pity you.”  Cas swallowed thickly and his eyes took on a faraway look.  “It’s just… I know what it’s like to be at the end of your rope.”  Cas glanced away and turned.  “I’ll go make breakfast.”

And all Dean could do at that point, really, was stare at Cas’s back as he walked away.


	5. Baptism

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dear readers! I hope you enjoy the chapter, and enjoy the wonderful artwork at the end, done by the amazing Beginte!

                                                            [](http://s1362.photobucket.com/user/muliasz/media/shower_edited_zps963bb9d3.jpg.html)

 

 

 

 

 

 

            Dean Winchester wasn’t weak, he wasn’t helpless, and he hated to feel like he was.

            He felt that way now, as he sat on the porch steps, arms crossed, resting on his drawn-up knees, stubborn, and just a bit angry as he watched Cas fade into the trees at the end of the path.

            The fight had been quick and brutal.  Dean had been sure that he’d win, or at least get kicked out of the cabin for his trouble, once Cas saw his temper.  But he’d learned in the space of a few minutes that Cas was also a stubborn son of a bitch who could give Dean a run for his money.

 

 

 

            It happened like this:

            They were seated at the little wooden table in the main room, Dean grudgingly devouring the breakfast that Cas had prepared for the both of them.  Cas had made scrambled eggs, and crispy sausages, and buttered up some of the leftover bread from the night before, and it had all smelled so good, and Dean was so hungry that his stomach grumbled when he saw and smelled the food, and he hadn’t been able to help himself. 

            He’d _just_ torn off a chunk of bread when Cas cleared his throat and informed Dean that he was going to make the five mile journey into town to get some stronger medicines and supplies for Dean’s ankle.

            Dean had forced the bread down and shoved his plate away.  “Uh, Cas, in case you don’t remember our earlier chat, I want to remind you that I’m not a charity case, and I can’t afford to buy those things either.  So… don’t go.  You’ve already done too much as it is.”

            Cas had stared at Dean calmly over the rim of his steaming coffee mug and said plainly, “I’ll do what I want to do, Dean.”

            Dean had growled and slammed his hand on the table, hard enough that the plate holding the rest of his food rattled, reminding Cas that Dean was a _stranger_ that he’d let into his home.  Dean bared his teeth.  “You don’t owe me anything!”  He pointed his finger in Cas’s face.  “How do you know that I’m not just going to rob you blind while you’re gone, huh?  You don’t know me!”  Dean realized that he’d worked himself up so much that he was panting.

            Across the table, Cas frowned—it was the only expression on his face that gave Dean a hint of what the other man was feeling—but it wasn’t an angry frown and Cas didn’t seem particularly disturbed by Dean’s suggestions, either.  Instead, Cas took a nonchalant bite of his eggs and replied, “I don’t have anything really worth taking here, and even if I did, the whole point of me going into town is that you can hardly stand—how would you carry anything away?”

            The simple logic behind the argument is what pissed Dean off the most.

 

 

            That’s how Dean found himself sitting on the porch, arms crossed, glaring until Cas disappeared from view.  Dean was tempted to wreak havoc on the little cabin, just to shock Cas into reality and show him what Dean was capable of, but after getting a better look around the place that morning, Dean couldn’t bring himself to do it.

            Cas was so stupid for trusting someone he didn’t know—especially Dean, of all people—but he didn’t seem to understand that.  It frustrated Dean enough that he wanted to hit Cas.  But at the same time, he felt some sort of strange surge of protective impulse for the other man, an impulse that seemed to live underneath his skin and apparently had no intention of leaving. 

            Dean refused to examine the feeling too closely, and instead decided that while he couldn’t bring himself to trash Cas’s place, he could sure as hell snoop.

 

 

 

 

            After Cas had disappeared from view, Dean heaved himself to his feet and hobbled back into the cabin, pushed by the insane, burning need to _do_ something.  Something terrible and destructive and raw.  It was an impulse that was roaring through his veins, fueled by frustration and grief, and utter confusion.  Dean was _dangerous._ He wasn’t a good person.  And he sure as hell didn’t deserve the kindness that Cas was intent on showing him.  Dean felt the need to _show_ Cas what kind of person he was. 

            It was easy to get around in the cabin because the home wasn’t very big and there were plenty of surfaces for Dean to hold onto.  He felt dumb limping along, hissing and cursing each time his injured foot took any of his weight.  He’d fucked it to hell, that was for sure.  How long did it even take for something like that to heal?

            Dean’s annoyance took him to the kitchen first, where he figured there might be something to clue Dean in on what kind of guy Cas was.  Dean yanked the little fridge open first, hoping to maybe find some beer—both for him, and as a hint that Cas was an alcoholic—but there was nothing in there except water and what looked like some sort of juice.  Dean scrunched his nose up in disgusted disappointment and allowed the door to swing shut once more. 

            He took his time going through the few cupboards that lined the walls, but there was nothing very interesting there, either.  Some food, mostly dried goods, and lots of dried herbs that had been put in various containers and labeled.  Dean pulled one jar from the shelf—it held dried, purple flowers that Dean thought he could maybe smell even through the glass.  The pale, slightly faded label was marked with plain black ink:  _Lavandula angustifolia._ Dean frowned.  He recognized the smell of the flowers, knew that it was lavender.  Cas could have just written that, but he’d written out the full…Latin?...name of it.  There was something about the simple, slanted writing and the precise wording that Dean found sort of endearing. 

            That thought irked him even more, so he shoved the lavender back in the cupboard and limped out of the kitchen.

            The main room of the cabin seemed to hide no secrets, but Dean knew people.  _Everyone_ had secrets, and as nice a guy as Cas seemed, surely he had his fair share too.  Why else would a guy like him be living alone in a cabin the woods, detached from human interaction?

            There weren’t many places where Cas could hide something in the room, but he did have a medium sized wooden dresser that sat against the wall.  Dean smirked.  _Jackpot._ That’s where Sammy had hidden all his best stuff when he was a teenager, so Dean figured it was worth a shot.

            Cas’s clothes were all simple, practical.  The fabric was soft and it all carried the lingering scent of the man.  It was oddly comforting—Dean pushed the thought away forcefully and continued to dig through the other man’s belongings.  Dean couldn’t help smiling.  Cas wore a hell of a lot of plaid—it was a simple thing, really, but it was something Dean could relate to.  Plaid had always signaled warmth and comfort for Dean.  Family, and safety.  Working people wore plaid.  Trustworthy people wore it, too.

            Dean was almost ready to give up, when his fingers brushed against a thick piece of paper folded carefully between two shirts.  Dean pulled it out, eager to see what the man hid.

            The people in the photograph looked happy.  Cas looked much younger here—his big blue eyes were bright, and his mouth was quirked into a small, easy-going smile.  He wore black slacks and a white button-up shirt, and a blue tie that was flipped backwards.  Beside him, another, slightly shorter man, slung his arm around Cas and grinned unabashedly into the camera.  His eyes were golden, and full of humor.  Flanking the two of them were presumably Cas’s parents—the man looked sort of like Cas might in another twenty or so years—dark hair grayed near the temples, face sort of stern, with lines that were not smile lines.  A petite red-haired woman stood on the other side, laugh lines around her eyes and mouth.  She was glancing slightly toward the three men in the photograph, the glint of love in her eyes unmistakable, even in the flatness of a photo.  Dean allowed his gaze to linger, for a long while, before the flipped the photo over and found scrawled on the back: _Summer, ’11. Me, Michael, and the boys, Gabriel and Castiel._

            Dean turned the photo back over and swallowed thickly.  They all looked so happy.  Dean carefully placed the photo back in the drawer and arranged Cas’s clothes back over it in the way he’d found it.  Dean knew there were lots of reasons why a person might hide away a photo of their family like that, and none of them were good reasons.

            All of the anger and frustration and determination drained right out of Dean, then, and now he only felt weary, and ashamed of himself for snooping through Cas’s things.  Dean had searched through Cas’s home, utterly disrespectful, trying to prove a point to both himself and Cas, and the worst thing he’d found was a photo of what he assumed was Cas’s family, tucked gently away.

            Dean ran a hand through his hair and heaved a weary sigh.  He suddenly felt terrible, felt dirty, like the only thing he’d proved was that, yeah, he _didn’t_ deserve Cas’s kindness.

 

 

 

 

            Dean limped to the bathroom, figuring maybe a shower would help, might make him feel clean, since nothing else could.

            It was more difficult than Dean would have liked to haul himself into the shower, and even harder still to lean himself against the tiled wall to keep his balance while trying not to put any pressure on his injury.  But once he turned the faucet all the way to hot and the water started pouring on his back, all of Dean’s thoughts melted away.

            Dean hadn’t been able to clean himself in a place that wasn’t a public bathroom in more than a week, and so he wasn’t surprised to see murky water sluicing off of his skin and down the drain.  The water pressure was awesome, and as Dean breathed in the steam in the modest bathroom, he felt warm, and relaxed, and grateful.  He hadn’t have any soap with him, but he didn’t think that Cas would mind, and if he did, well… Dean hoped that he wouldn’t notice. 

            There was a bottle of the stuff sitting on a little shelf built into the shower wall, and when Dean opened it and inhaled, he caught the scent of honey and oats.  Dean poured a liberal amount in his hand and scrubbed it through his hair, over the tense muscles of his arms and legs, down the flat expanse of his stomach and chest.  Dean scrubbed, determined to wash the dirt away, to wash it _all_ away.

            Before long, Dean found himself leaning against the shower wall, too tired to stand on his own anymore, too reluctant to leave the warmth of the shower.  Dean let his anger and frustration and his worry wash down the drain, and he breathed in warmth and safety and goodness.

            He felt lighter when he dried off and put on Cas’s clean clothes once more.

 

 

 

 

            When Cas returned home a couple hours after he left, he found Dean resting on the porch steps where he’d left him, waiting.

 

 

 

 

                                                 [](http://s1362.photobucket.com/user/muliasz/media/drifterDean_zps334b0ed1.png.html)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beginte has a new tumblr, btw, so y'all should go follow her there, because she's amazing! <3 http://beginte.tumblr.com/

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are love! Also, feel free to stalk my tumblr at: http://realhunterswearplaid.tumblr.com/


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